Two Testaments (19 page)

The idea intrigued Moustafa. “And does it work? Does it keep you from fearing yourself?”

David chuckled. “I don’t think I’m a very good person to ask that question of right now. I’m in the process of changing philosophies. But I haven’t figured the new one out yet.”

Moustafa pressed him. “What kind of philosophy is it?” He wanted to pick the brain of this American intellectual, to know what someone so far removed in culture from this hellish war thought in his soul.

“Nothing that would interest you. Christianity.”

Moustafa sighed, disappointed. “Ah, yes. Catholicism.”

“No. Not Catholicism. Not Protestantism. Not Orthodoxy. At least not for right now. Just the Christ. I’m trying to figure Him out from the Bible, without a myriad of religious traditions attached.”

“That’s good. Go to the source.” This was what Moustafa wanted to hear about. Another man’s searching. “I read the Koran.”

“And do you find it helpful? Spiritually? And practically?”

“Yes, at times I have. But now …” He did not want to state his opinion. He wanted to hear David’s.

“What?”

“I wonder if truth exists. My religion says that if you die a martyr in a jihad, this is the only sure way you will get to heaven. And some claim that according to the holy book, a husband is allowed to beat his wife if she isn’t submissive. The hope it offers is through violence.”

David laughed, holding up his thick Bible. “This book tells of violence too. It seems full of contradictions. Jesus says He comes to bring peace. And then in another place He claims it is not peace, but a sword. Strange.” He set the book down. “But I can’t get around it now, for all my questions. I think I’m stuck.”

“Stuck?”

“Yes, stuck with this Christ. I’ve come to understand that Christianity is all about relationship with a higher power. Being known by God and knowing Him. Without the need of all the religious traditions or the intermediary of a priest or prophet.”

“And how does that make you ‘stuck’?”

“Perhaps I did a foolish thing. In a moment of weakness, I gave in to this God. I bared my soul to Him and gave Him my life. And even if I want to take it back, I have the feeling I can’t. Oh, I can turn away from Him, but He’s sealed me for eternity. It says something like that in the New Testament. Sealed for life by His Spirit. I don’t own my life anymore.”

Moustafa was fascinated. “That’s a terrible shame. Unless, of course, you find purpose in this religion … this relationship.”

“Yes. It’s a religion of forgiveness and trust. And freedom. Kind of paradoxical. You choose this God, and He forgives you. Frees you to live without guilt. But binds you to live in obedience. And this obedience is freeing. Very strange.”

“And does it work?” That was the question burning in his soul. Did anything work?

“I’m new at it, Moustafa. At first I felt a sort of freedom—emotional freedom. And I even found it stimulating intellectually. But now … now I am only angry that a God who claims to be in control of all life could watch this around us and do nothing.” He cleared his throat. “So give me a little while. You see, I’m only just starting to figure it out. I have the feeling it will take me a long, long time.”

“My religion is simpler. You pray five times a day. You fast. You follow the laws. But there is no freedom. What I want is an oasis. An oasis here.” Moustafa pointed to his heart. “Have you ever seen one? A real oasis?”

“No.”

Moustafa closed his eyes. “It comes to you out of nowhere, like a mirage in the desert. Only it’s real. In the middle of the unbearable heat, the loneliness, the dust that fills your lungs, it opens up before you, fertile and green. And you are suddenly satisfied.” He ran his hands through his curly hair, measuring his words. How much could he say to this American? “That’s what I am searching for. An oasis for my soul.”

David rubbed his chin. In the shadows his face looked almost misshapen, long, thin, skeletal. The American seemed vulnerable and insecure. “Do you have a copy of the Koran?”

Moustafa looked at him, surprised. “Not here. But at home, yes. Mother does.”

“Could you get it?”

Moustafa laughed sarcastically. “Sure. On my next futile trip to try to convince her to leave, I can get it.”

“And when will that be?”

“Soon, I guess. Now that Rémi has a plan.”

“Good. Get the Koran. I have this Bible. We’ll compare. We’ll look and see what these holy books say. Maybe I’ll even find out if I’ve made the right choice.”

Moustafa shrugged. “Maybe I will see if there is a choice to make after all.” He pulled the sheet over himself and rolled onto his side. The night was still, but he was afraid. Displaced loyalty. All he wanted right now was a place on a ferry and a chance to see Anne-Marie, coming to him with the warmth of her love for him in her eyes. An oasis.

12

Gabriella’s nose was pressed against the glass window of the train as she watched the scenery rush past. The whistle screamed and the wheels screeched as the train slowed and entered the Gare de Lyon. Paris! Something awesome and grand danced within her. For a moment she forgot that forty-one other young Americans were on the train with her and that she and Sister Rosaline were supposed to be in charge.

David should have been here. He had been the guide for the Paris tour last year, and every girl on the program had fallen in love with him.

Why couldn’t he be here now, with her? She should have the kiss in the Tuileries gardens as flowers bloomed and fountains splashed around them. She should be held in his embrace on the banks of the Seine as they stared at the flying buttresses of Notre Dame and admired the green foliage that tumbled down toward them from walls beside the giant cathedral.

She thought of the letter she had given to Pierre two weeks ago. Surely David had received it by now. Was he thinking of Paris as he read it? Did he want to be with her?
Why aren’t you here?

The girls chattered excitedly, grabbing suitcases, laughing and causing everyone else on the train to stare.

“
Les filles
,” Sister Rosaline called out, exasperated. “You’re acting quite rude.” She rolled her eyes. “We must catch the Métro to the hotel. It is not very
compliqué
if you will only listen. There are tickets for each of you. You only need one, but keep it to use when we change stations.
Comprenez?
”

The girls nodded, only half listening. Sister Rosaline caught Gabriella’s eye and shrugged. Gabriella shrugged in return, and they laughed. Forty-two American girls in Paris with equally as many daydreams in their pretty little heads. What had she gotten herself into?

The hotel was not a hotel at all, but a convent that each year housed the Americans from Castelnau for their stay in Paris. In previous years this had lasted two weeks, but due to the circumstances this year, their visit had been shortened to five days. The furnishings were sparse, mattresses on the floor of the chapel and hard bread and coffee for breakfast. But no one was looking for comfort. The convent was only a place to come to at the end of an exhilarating day, a brief pause before rushing back out into the wonder of Paris.

After the first disastrous morning when it had taken three hours to get everyone from the convent to the Eiffel Tower, Gabriella grew impatient. “Must we always stay together?” she asked Sister Rosaline. “We’ll never see anything.”

“You’re right, Gabriella. They aren’t children. They each have an itinerary and two books of Métro tickets, a map of the city, and their own money. Let’s leave them alone, let them enjoy. If they need help from us, we’ll hear about it.”

“That is an absolutely wonderful idea.” Gabriella breathed a sigh of relief. There was so much she wanted to see, and she secretly hoped no one else would tag along behind her.

As the girls stretched their necks to see the fascinating latticework of iron from their position under the Eiffel Tower, Sister Rosaline called out to them. “You’re on your own now, everyone! Just remember, if you want the student discount, show your cards. And curfew is at eleven o’clock. You’ll be locked out after that.”

In no time at all, the girls had scattered with their friends, and Gabriella was left standing at the base of the immense tower with Sister Rosaline and Stephanie Thrasher.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Stephanie called. “Let’s go up!” She found a place in line, chattering to Gabriella as if the Eiffel Tower were nothing more than a huge Ferris wheel at a county fair.

Gabriella and Stephanie walked through the Latin Quarter on rue St-Germain-des-Prés at dusk. Paris by night. Student artists displayed their pastel prints on the sidewalks beside beggars and vendors. The quartier was littered with theaters and sidewalk cafés. They sipped
chocolats
at Les Deux Magots, and Gabriella imagined Sartre or Hemingway sitting at the same table, scribbling notes for a novel. They admired the magnificent eighteenth-century architecture, still well preserved, and they watched the city bustle by.

Then they took the Métro to the Right Bank, where they listened to a violinist playing “Pachelbel’s Canon” within the recesses of the subterranean passages. Its melancholy melody echoed in their ears as they hopped onto the subway and emerged at the Place de la Concorde, where Gabriella could imagine in all its grisly detail the guillotine falling down to decapitate the king, the queen, and countless others in the late eighteenth century. By the lights of the city, they left the Place and strolled up the majestic tree-lined Champs-Élysées, one of the most famous avenues in the world.

“Oh, look, Gabriella! Godiva chocolates! Let’s just have a look,” Stephanie said, pulling Gabriella toward the richly adorned store. The window displayed ornately decorated boxes filled with deep, rich chocolate. “Too bad it’s closed.”

They walked to the end of the avenue, then took the underground passageway to the Arc de Triomphe. Stephanie and Gabriella stood in respectful silence before the tomb of the unknown soldier under the immense Arc.

“It was commissioned in 1806 by Napoleon to commemorate French victory,” Gabriella told Stephanie, reading from her guidebook. “And there are twelve avenues that radiate from the Arc. It’s called L’Étoile.”

“The star. That makes sense.”

“Can’t you just imagine the uniting force of the French as the troops marched in procession after the Liberation of Paris in 1944? Wouldn’t you have loved to have been here on one of the grand occasions when all of Paris turned out on the Champs-Élysées?”

“Hmm. Sure, why not?” Stephanie shrugged, nibbling a fingernail. “If you ask me, just being here tonight is pretty wonderful.”

“You’re right.” Gabriella smiled, interlocking arms with her friend. “Of course, you’re right.”

Stephanie was fun and energetic. Seeing Paris with her was easy. But at every new monument Gabriella would stop and think,
You should be here beside me, David
.

She said it the next morning as she stood at the base of a flight of hundreds of steps leading to Sacré-Cœur. The impressive white Byzantine basilica loomed proud and picturesque on the green hill, surrounded by a blue sky with billowing clouds. Halfway up the steps they paused, panting, to take in the brilliant view.

Inside, the church was filled with mosaics. Gabriella lit a candle for David and prayed for his safety. On the chancel vaulting, she admired the immense mosaic of Christ, the Sacred Heart, and wondered how many of those who stopped in reverence before the glorious Christ really understood.

When they left the church, the sky had turned gray, and it was raining.

“Oh, look, Gabriella,” Stephanie exclaimed, pointing to her right. “Isn’t that just what you’d expect to see outside of Sacré-Cœur?”

A beautiful rainbow arched across the gray sky in yellows and blues and reds and oranges. A promise, Gabriella thought, watching the rainbow.

“You should be here now,” she whispered again as they headed out into the rain.

Gabriella was determined to see the museums, even if she had to do it alone.

“Sorry, Gab, but I get bored in those places,” Stephanie apologized after breakfast on their third day. “Anyway, Caroline and I are going to check out some of the shops on rue St. Honoré.”

Sister Rosaline declined her offer as well, preferring to chat with another sister at the convent. Everyone else had plans, and Gabriella felt a sudden relief to be alone. Except that Paris was meant to be shared … if not with a lover, at least with a soul mate. Someone who would run with her through the rain, entering the Jeu de Paume museum sopping wet, and stand, bedraggled but mesmerized, before the painting of Degas’ ballerinas.

As it was, Gabriella stood there alone. She shivered, not so much from cold as from pleasure, as the graceful ballerinas danced off the canvas in the first room of the Impressionist museum.

In every room she found herself talking to David as if he were beside her, commenting on a certain painting as he had done while showing slides in class.

When she reached the room where Monet’s poppies spread across the far wall, she stopped.
Les Coquelicots.
Without thinking, she whispered, “Exuberance that softly spread to capture fields of dreams and hearts.” A line from David’s poem to her, inspired by this painting.